


The One Time He Beat You

by covertius



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Gen, Kastor pov, mentions of Akielon slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 20:34:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15469503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/covertius/pseuds/covertius
Summary: Kastor was illegitimate, but he was still a prince and an heir to the throne.  There had been bastard Kings before. His brother was before him now, true, but there had been cases when Kings had altered the line of succession, moving forward a younger son who showed more aptitude for ruling than his brothers, or even declaring a daughter the first heir for her steady mind or useful marriage.  And he knew that his father loved him as much as Damen, and loved his mother more than he had the late Queen Egeria. If Kastor could prove that he would make a better King than his younger brother, it would happen for him too. He made faces at the baby in his arms and laughed when Damen squealed at him. How could he fail to prove himself a better King than that?





	The One Time He Beat You

Kastor was illegitimate, but he was still a prince and an heir to the throne.  There had been bastard Kings before. His brother was before him now, true, but there had been cases when Kings had altered the line of succession, moving forward a younger son who showed more aptitude for ruling than his brothers, or even declaring a daughter the first heir for her steady mind or useful marriage.  And he knew that his father loved him as much as Damen, and loved his mother more than he had the late Queen Egeria. If Kastor could prove that he would make a better King than his younger brother, it would happen for him too. He made faces at the baby in his arms and laughed when Damen squealed at him. How could he fail to prove himself a better King than that?

Kastor taught his brother many things himself - how to hold and hurl a spear, how to shift his weight on a horse when he did it so his pony would not get confused and turn the way he leaned, the right way to stand when he lifted a sword in his arm.  He liked the way the little boy looked up at him, all big eyes like Kastor was one of the heroes of his stories, a man of myths and legends who knew everything and could do anything. Besides, he would need his brother’s support when his father gave him the throne, and the more he knew, the better he would be at serving Kastor in the army and advising him in the court.  (Though it amused him to think of this fluffy-headed little boy becoming a man of power and honor.)

He watched with pride as Damen took on “a big boy” three years older than him, and cheered when Damen turned around to make sure his big brother had seen him win.  Two older warriors walked past behind him.

“The young prince is a prodigy with arms,” said one of the men.

“For his age, his skill is remarkable,” said the other, “Imagine how formidable he will be when he is grown.”

Neither of them mentioned that his progress reflected well on Kastor’s skill in teaching him.  He frowned, slightly.

* * *

In spring, Damen’s pony turned over a loose stone and broke its leg.  It was his first pony, the one that he had been plopped onto as a toddler back when he still needed someone to sit behind him and keep him upright in his seat while he got used to the saddle.  Kastor had been the one to do that many a time. The poor beast’s muzzle was half-gray now, but it still should have had a good few years left in it, and been sent to an easy retirement when the young prince was big enough to try his first horse, waiting to be visited for sentimentality and apples.  Now, it was going to die. Damen had not argued in the unreasonable way children do when it was explained to him that his pony was in pain and would not heal and had to be put down as a kindness, and he had manfully not cried. But he had gone off to sit by himself while it was happening, and Kastor went to sit beside him.

“It will be over soon,” he said, taking his brother’s small hand.

“I know,” said Damen, but he didn’t say anymore.  None of the men in their family discussed things.

Kastor sat with him in silence for some time, quietly offering support.  Then he got bored, and started a game with himself of “distracting Damen from his sorrow” by regaling him with tales.

“It was the Isthimans that did that,” Damen interrupted, cutting into one of his stories of the wars of ancient days.

“No, the warriors of the belt were the heroes of the day, that’s why Makedon’s best men still wear them -”

“Yes, but they didn’t take the false King,” said Damen, “They were the heroes because they were outnumbered, but they still cleared the beach and kept the enemy off it long enough for the Isthimans to get off their ships, and then the  _ fresh _ troops caused the rout.”

“No, the men of Sicyon surrounded and captured the enemy commanders.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Damen said, leaning his head against his brother’s shoulder, “Tell me of the fall of Artes, and Akielos rising.  I like that one.”

Kastor told the new story, but later that day, when Damen was in bed but boys of Kastor’s age (young men, really) were awake with the adults, he went down to the library to check whose recollection had been correct.  It was Damen who had been right: the Sicyons with their cavalry had driven the beach clear for the Isthimans to disembark, and without them the day would have been lost. Kastor could not have articulated why that small mistake made him so angry, but he felt, deep in his bones, that somehow he had been slighted, and not just his fists but his entire body clenched in rage.

* * *

 

Damen grew.  His first growth spurt brought him up past Kastor’s shoulder before his voice had broken; the one that would come with manhood might see him surpassing Kastor in height.  He improved in his studies to; in his knowledge of history and languages, in his skills at arms and at sports. He was, perhaps, when Kastor was being most honest with himself, which was not often, a  _ little _ bit ahead of where Kastor had been at that age, but some children picked things up quickly and then went no further as adults.  He certainly was no match for Kastor, who was past twenty now and a man and already starting to prove his suitability for the throne.

Their meetings in the training yard continued, although they were now more friendly bouts than lessons.  Damen was thirteen, and already proving more of a challenge than Kastor was willing to admit. He was a man.  A boy could not be a threat to him. It was absurd - ridiculous.

It happened so quickly that in the shock of it he almost did not believe it.  The clash of wooden swords, clatter ringing out around the training hall - and then the blow, the wind knocked out of him, the bruise against his ribs.  Little Damen, under his guard, too quick to be stopped, too skilled to be anticipated. He could still feel the wooden blade plowing into him as Damen threw up his hands and whooped, running circles around the ring and shouting for everyone to hear that he had landed a hit on Kastor.

Little brat.  He would show him.

Kastor forced himself to smile, clapped a hand on his brother’s back, congratulated him on his skill and how much he had improved.

“I think you’re ready now,” Kastor said, “To try fighting me with a real sword.”

His narrow chest swelled up with pride and he nodded, like a man, before walking to the sword rack and choosing a steel blade.  Kastor was going to wipe the pride off his face. Show him what he gets for trying to be better than a man like Kastor, show everyone watching what kind of princes they both made.

Kastor was going to teach him a lesson.

It was a quicker bout this time, Kastor bigger and stronger and fueled by rage, and almost before the fight had really gotten underway, Damianos was bleeding onto the sawdust.

There was a lot of blood.  The wound was deep.

He felt a thrill of vindictive triumph, watching the little twerp’s face contort in agony,  _ see who’s a man now! _  Then shock and horror, as he realized what he’d done.

Kastor dropped his sword and joined the men swarming to his brother’s side, lifting him up off the dirty ground, trying to hold his wound closed as they shouted for a physician.

_ I didn’t mean to do it, _ Kastor told himself.  He had wanted to teach him a lesson, yes, show him who the better man and the better prince was, perhaps give him a scratch, but not -  _ I didn’t mean to hurt my brother. _

He told that to his mother later too, who was confused.  

“Of course you didn’t mean to,” she said, “No one thinks this was anything other than an accident.”

But he could hear the lie in his own voice when he spoke the words, despite what he tried to make himself believe.  Hadn’t he deliberately chosen to switch to weapons that were dangerous? Hadn’t he wanted to hurt him as much as possible?  Hadn’t he intentionally driven the blade as far as it would go?

He hung around Damianos’s sickroom like a guilty shadow, never going in, until the physicians told him they were certain that there was no infection, and that he would live.  Kastor sagged against the wall, a heavy feeling settling in his stomach.

He told himself that it was relief.

* * *

 

When Damianos was fifteen, their father sent him to serve in the army under Kastor - practice, for the time when he would be given command himself.  Kastor watched the boy go among the soldiers; they deferred to him, always, as was his right as Prince, but he worked alongside them and shirked none of the work they did, and he saw the soldiers watching that and respecting that.  Kastor had done the same when he had been that age, but if Damianos felt any of the resentment he had for being a Prince of the blood working like the common infantry, he hid it better than Kastor had. He smiled just as easily whether he was making up the camp with the other men, or leaving them in the evening for the comfort of his royal tent and the arms of his slaves.  Kastor saw the men coming to love him - watched him winning their loyalty easily as breathing.

Still, Damianos was lonely.  His friend Nikandros was serving at the Kingsmeet, and there was too much of a barrier between himself and the other men for real friendships to form.  He spent a lot of time hanging about in Kastor’s tent, bothering him and being in the way as he tried to talk to his advisors. Damianos had been standing in the corner for some time observing to the commanders talk - not interrupting, but irritating Kastor with the awareness of his presence - when he suddenly stepped forward to speak.

“You are using the Acarnan maneuver, from the wars of King Eumenedes,” he said, looking over the map.

“Yes,” said Kastor impatiently, “It’s the appropriate strategy for hilly terrain.”

“True,” Damianos said, “But because of that, it’s the one we always use when fighting here.  The tribes will have seen us do it before, many times. They will be expecting it.”

“What do you suggest instead?” asked one of Kastor’s commanders.

“A slight variation,” he said, moving some pieces on the map and explaining the ways that his small changes could preserve the heart of the strategy while defying expectations enough to regain the element of surprise.

Around him, Kastor’s advisers were nodding in agreement, and while he burned to object, he had been trained in military strategy too, and could see in his mind the way that Damianos’s ideas would play out, gaining them the upper hand.  It was the wisest thing to do, and he swallowed his pride and commanded it so.

It was not a battle.  It was a rout. The cleanest victory he’d ever achieved, with the fewest casualties on their side and the most complete defeat on the enemy’s.  He went home to thrown laurels and the praise of his father, but for all that he’d led the men, it still felt like Damianos’s victory, not his, and it soured in his gut.

As time passed, he heard soldiers and commanders calling back to the great strategists of old, men who conquered empires, men whose books of tactics were still taught, and whispering that in the young prince they may have found another one.

* * *

 

Perhaps it was not in skill at arms and war that Kastor would prove himself superior to his brother.  There was more than that to being a King, after all, and Damianos had never shown much interest in politics or trade.  Did not the kingdom’s health rely on its treaties and its economies as much as on its armies? Kastor had never shown much interest in these aspects of ruling either, but it was never too late to learn.  This could be how he would convince their father that he would hold the throne better than his brother.

Kastor threw himself into books of trade and political strategy, of which there were few in Akielos.  The ones he found were boring, and filled with numbers and complex loopholes and countermeasures that made his head spin.  Still, he kept at it doggedly.

* * *

 

They were in Aegina, visiting the Kyros there and shoring up loyalties, when Kastor decided it was time to try to show up his brother’s real governance ability in front of their father.

“It’s almost time to renegotiate our treaty with Patras,” he said, as they were standing on the balcony in the Kyros’s keep, looking out over the water.  It was rare that the royal family were all three together outside of Ios, rarer still that they were alone without whatever people they had come to see. It was wise to seize this opportunity.  He turned to his brother. “What do you think we should ask for, in terms of fishing rights?”

Damianos shrugged.  “Ask the Kyros what he wants, but then see what his harbormaster says,” Damen said, “They will know the local interests better than we will.”

“But what do you think, on your own merit?” Kastor pressed.

His brother’s face grew more serious.  “Do you have suspicions of the harbormaster’s loyalty?  Has he been bribed by Patras?”

“It’s not impossible,” said Kastor, “You cannot trust your advisors too implicitly.”

“But trying to form policy without delegating to experts can lead to foolish decisions,” Damianos said, “If you have evidence of treachery, bring it to the Kyros’s attention, and he can deal with it as he may.  But if all evidence points to the man being honest and competent at his work, than trust him to know his own business better than you.”

Kastor smiled, and told their father his own ideas for what they should try to get from Patras.

Later, Theomedes pulled him aside and praised him for investigating these matters on his own.  

“It is good to have a basis from which to catch your men in a lie,” he said, “I am glad that you will be there, watching out for treachery in your brother’s court.”

Kastor smiled through the bile rising in his throat.

When the treaty with Patras came up for renegotiation, Theomedes asked the Kyros of Aegina what he wanted, and then called for his harbormaster to speak to him in person.  Before he sent his ambassador with the papers, he had Kastor read them over and look for any obvious flaws.

One could not become an expert in all things from two years of study.

The policy looked better and fairer than the one he had come up with.

Theomedes approved it, without implementing any of what Kastor had thought of on his own.

Later that year, his father brought Prince Damianos to the Kingsmeet and pinned him with the official mark of Crown Prince and first heir to Akielos.

* * *

 

Kastor’s brother got everything - the finest clothes, the strongest guards, the grandest rooms, the sweetest victories, the greatest praise.  When they walked together, he had preference. When they greeted their subjects together his cheers were louder. When they fought Vere at Marlas, Kastor commanded the troops and held the line, but Damianos secured their victory by felling Crown Prince Auguste in single combat.  Their father clapped them both on the shoulder and said how proud he was of both his sons, but Damianos is the one who was remembered as the hero of Marlas. He felt like the men of Sicyon in the story he had told Damen, clearing out the beach so that other men could secure the victory - but in those ancient days, the honor and the glory had gone to the right party.  Kastor did not have even that.

Food tasted rotten in his mouth, for he was sure that Damen’s plate held better; his slaves felt cold in his bed, for he was sure Damen’s slaves were hotter; his father’s praise rang hollow in his ears, for he was certain that he loved Damen more.

* * *

 

Kastor had failed to beat his brother in arms, to beat his brother in war, and to become a political mastermind on a level great enough that it would make the first two failures immaterial.  But there was one thing at which he clearly excelled his brother. Resentment festered in him like a canker, blighting all his days, blotting out his sun - but having bitterness lay like a film over his eyes, he was able to see and recognize it in others, far better than the King and the complacent fool who was his brother.  He saw Meniados of Sicyon sulk at the waning importance of his province, and the prominence given to the young upstart Nikandros whose land now formed the all important border with Vere; he saw the younger sons glaring at their brothers, knowing they could do just as well if only they had their chance. He saw their resentment, like his own, and he sought it out, fostered and nurtured it, promised - without giving away his hand - that things would be different for them if only he was on the throne.

He saw the way Adrastus looked when he presented the slaves to their new owners - proud, but also hungry - and he approached him as they were watching the new best of his gardens walk trembling to his father’s bed.

“I have always thought in an unfairness,” Kastor said, “That the keeper of the royal slaves was not allowed to select a few of his own to keep him comfortable.  After all that hard work training the best slaves in the world for us, to never even be able to taste the fruits of your own labor.”

“To provide joy and pleasure to the royal family is blessing enough for your humble servant,” Adrastus said, debasing himself before him as was proper for Kastor’s rank, “And this policy protects the slaves from their handlers, who would be tempted to abuse their position if they knew that some of those they were training could be kept for their own use.”

“Is it to protect the slaves?” asked Kastor, “Or to protect the King from having the choicest morsels snatched from under his nose by an unscrupulous man?”

“Your servant lives to serve the royal family, and would never so dishonour his King or his Princes.”  The words came with the ease of phrases learned, not meant.

“I know you wouldn’t,” Kastor reassured him, “Which is why it is so unfair that you be denied the fruits of your labor.  If I were King, I would change the rule, so that the Royal Keeper could select one or two of the more meager slaves of the harem to keep for his own use, and enjoy what he has made.  But alas, it is not to be.”

He smiled, as if contented with this truth.  He did not think Adrastus believed it, any more than he believed Adrastus’s protestations.  They were watching each other carefully.

“My brother will be a good King,” Kastor went on, “But not, I think, much different from our father in this regard.”

Kastor took bets with himself for how long Adrastus would toss in his bed, lusting after the slaves he handled every day but could never truly touch, before he came to him.  Adrastus made it a week.

“Kastor-exalted,” he said, debasing himself even more than was proper, “I have been made aware of a weakness in palace security that must be brought to royal attention.”

Kastor raised his eyebrow.  This was not what he had expected Adrastus to say.  “Go on.”

“The corridors through which the slaves and handlers move to be unseen by their masters are sparsely guarded and seldom patrolled,” Adrastus said, “A handful of mercenaries entering from the slave gardens could move right into the royal apartments unseen and unchallenged by the palace guards, and take the personal guards of the inhabitants completely by surprise.”

Adrastus looked up significantly.  “I thought it best that you become aware of this.”

Kastor leaned forward eagerly.  He had not gained anywhere close to enough followers to take the throne by outright force, but with this information and Adrastus’s collusion he would only need a small number of purchased troops and a plan to avoid being caught.

“You did right, bringing this to my attention,” Kastor said, “It will be handled appropriately.”

As Adrastus took his most sycophantic leave of him, Kastor turned away in triumph.  He was so close now - everything he’d wanted all his life just within his grasp if he could only think of a way.

He turned.  On the other side of the courtyard, Ambassador Guion was standing and watching him.  He would have seen the meeting that had just taken place, but he was too far to overhear what had been said, so Kastor dismissed its importance.

“What are you looking at, old man?” he sneered, for without his father’s presence he saw no need to show politeness to Veretians who thought the way they did about men of his birth, ambassador or no.

“Potential, I think,” Guion said thoughtfully, “Frustrated potential.”

And then he smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this in a rush today without editing. Let me know what you think!
> 
> (Also, you can find me on tumblr at @covertius-fic)


End file.
